The Pile He Sat On

Story #4: The Pile He Sat On They say that the first million a man makes is better than sex, but that's nothing compared to his first billion. Joining the elusive club of the 0.01% was to be described as a beautiful apotheosis, where man was no longer just such a lowly thing, and instead was allowed power beyond the scope of the binds that he'd lugged his whole life. The glitter of gold was radiant enough to forever blind their eyes to the petty struggles that sprawled below their ivory tower; the caveat of this being that eventually they would not be able to see the tiny embers of a million marching torches, acting as a gathering inferno underneath the clouds of opulence. For many, fate would spare them the torches and pitchforks; karma would again prove itself dead as another rich prick hit the dirt without having ever suffered consequences for their exploitation of the cogs in their machine. For some, karma would have to be crafted of a vigilante's spirit, and that had been the exact case for Lucas Lambert. The man could still remember the fateful evening when it had happened. He had just poured himself another glass of wine and lit up a cigarette, entertaining himself with the sounds of Bach. Just before the set switched, he had heard a haunting click from behind; the barrel of a pistol had been pressed right against the back of his skull. Lucas had been caught blind, too dazzled by his gold to see a lone torch ascend his spire. While he had sat in stunned silence, the record had been stopped by another figure. They ended up talking. A lot. They chastised him for all the sins they could tally: poisoning the earth, exploiting the working class, bribing politicians to vote to his interest, and for doing it all with an outward face of 'an honest businessman'. (edited) What could he really respond with? They had him dead to rights on every count in their ever growing litany of heinous bullshit that he'd taken part in. He sputtered excuses, but they were meek and bereft of the confidence he would typically exude for an interview or speech. After an exhausting lecture, like he was some naughty child, they finally offered him 'the choice'. From how far he had fallen from his spire in the sky, it was clear to see what his decision had been. Given the choice of a bullet in the head or a chance at 'reeducation', there had only been the illusion of a real choice. They knew he was too much of a sniveling coward to take the easy way out. That had been over a year ago, when Lucas Lambert had mysteriously disappeared forever, while Lucas Dumont had quietly found its way into the record. Lucas Dumont was no billionaire or businessman, but instead was soon to be on his way to preschool. He could feel that his mind was still mostly the same, though his motor skills and childlike endocrine system had a definite sway on his thoughts. Whatever they had done to turn back the clock on him had seemed to be an imperfect process, the evidence of which was right in the middle of dropping into his Huggies. Almost four and Lucas was nowhere close to attempting pottytraining, not that his 'parents' seemed to mind. The little boy folded into a low squat and tried to focus on his cartoon, as nature took its course in the seat of his pants. He'd grown somewhat used to it, and embarrassingly, didn't completely hate the feeling. As he finished producing a pile in his pants, he sat down with a nasty squelch. Before he had been like a greedy dragon, sitting upon his pile of gold, but now he was but a tot, sitting upon a very different pile.